


Mortal Engines

by strangeandcharm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel Whump, Fallen Castiel, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel’s on fire; Dean knows how to cool him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mortal Engines

**Author's Note:**

> A porny PWP set post-season five finale, so I guess you can call it an AU as I have no idea how season five will end [note: at time of writing]! Contains sexin’, car mechanics and a wee bit of angst (but only a wee bit, honest).

 

~ ~ ~

 

The last time Dean saw Castiel was the day after the Apocalypse ended. He doesn’t remember much about the Apocalypse itself now, not really; not the final few weeks, anyway. It’s all gone. He wasn’t himself at the time. But he remembers standing in the ruins of New York’s City Hall and staring down at Castiel lying motionless on the floor, the shape of his missing wings marked out on the tiles in blood, stretching out for a few meters either side of him like some giant, sick crucifix. He remembers the sound of bones cracking, skin tearing and Zachariah’s gloating laughter. He remembers how Castiel had screamed when Sam had tried to lift him from the floor to get him into the car.

It wasn’t a happy memory, but it was only one out of many unhappy memories from that day. Dean tries to see it as just that: one day. It was a day that had sucked big time, yes, but it’s a day that’s over now. And the days since had done nothing but improve. It had taken them two weeks to hunt down Meg and finish her for good this time, a bullet hot from the Colt sent right through her forehead, while a week later Crowley had wriggled and spat at them and demanded some kind of gratitude for the way he’d fought Lucifer alongside them, as though that was any reason to forgive a demon. Sam had let him have the Colt, but not in the way Crowley had wanted. _Bang!_

Four weeks on and Dean feels pretty good. The road ahead of him is clear for the first time in years. No grand plans, no destruction, no demons… no angels. Not even Castiel. He’s not an angel any more; he’s just some guy. Bobby had looked after him while Dean and Sam went off and mopped up their post-apocalyptic loose ends, but they’re back now, and Bobby says Cas is doing fine. He’s quiet, but he’s fine. Dean would never admit it out loud, but secretly he’s pleased he wasn’t the one who’d had to spend time sewing up those wounds and changing those dressings, all the while trying to help an angel adjust to being human. He’s got nothing left to give any more. He spent too much of himself trying to stay sane and he can’t spare an ounce for anybody else.

He rounds a stack of junkers heaped high by Bobby’s driveway and gives the sun a baleful glare; it’s way too hot for May, probably some kind of comedown from the damage Lucifer did to the world. Forget global warming being man-made, Dean thinks wryly: if only Al Gore had foreseen _this_ inconvenient truth. The air is stagnant, humid, and his shirt is sticking to his back even though he only stepped outside two minutes ago. Bobby’s house isn’t exactly an icebox with so many windows boarded up and no chance for a through-breeze, but it’s still cooler than out here. Dean wonders why the hell Castiel is working through the hottest part of the day. He’s not an angel any more, so it’s not as though he can just shrug off all this heat.

“He’s good with engines,” Bobby had said. “Never known anyone figure out what makes ’em tick so fast in my life. Or what doesn’t make ’em tick, as the case may be. He’s been up to his elbows in oil for a week now and even though he’d never admit it, I’d say he’s as happy as a pig in shit.”

Sam had looked skeptical. Dean had laughed. But now Dean stops dead, staring, and he realizes Bobby was right. Castiel is bent under the hood of an old Ford, his expression utterly rapt as he stares at the engine beneath his grease-blackened hands, one arm resting on what must be scorching hot metal without seeming to notice the heat. He’s studying the engine’s rusty alternator with his lips pursed, probably wondering if he’ll be able to remove it without it crumbling into little flakes under his hands. He looks weirdly at home. Dean can feel contentment radiating off him, although that could also just be the heat.

Or, much as Dean can’t quite believe it, it could be something else entirely. Castiel isn’t wearing a shirt and his skin’s glistening with sweat, tanned and shining from waist to neck. Somehow the sight of Castiel half-naked feels obscene and Dean can’t quite get over it. Bizarrely, Castiel’s feet are bare too, which is kind of dangerous considering all the crap strewn around the scrapyard – Dean finds himself wondering if he’s had his tetanus shots. His jeans are ripped and smeared with paint and oil. They look ancient, probably snagged from the bottom of Bobby’s washpile, but they suit him.

It’s a totally different Castiel to the one Dean saw a month ago, finally out of that damn coat and looking halfway human and relaxed, but it’s not all good. There are now two thick, red stripes running from Castiel’s shoulderblades to the middle of his back in a perfect ‘V’ formation. They’ve healed well, but the skin still looks painfully fragile and new, and Dean can only guess at how sensitive the scars must feel. He remembers all the blood and has to swallow hard, wishing this whole thing had never happened.

“Wondered when you’d be back,” Castiel rumbles without looking up.

Somehow, it doesn’t surprise Dean at all that he knew he was there. “Finished all our chores, figured it was time to come home,” he says, coming to stand by Castiel’s side. “Meg’s dead. Along with about ten other big-name demons. Ganked the lot of them.”

Castiel sniffs. “Glad to hear it.” He glances up at him, narrowing his eyes against the unrelenting sunshine. “How’s Sam?”

“Fine. Doesn’t remember much of it, just like me.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Castiel looks down again. So much for a joyful reunion: he’s acting as though he last saw Dean a few hours ago. Although, sudden humanity aside, this is still Cas, after all – clumsy and awkward with everyday customs such as greetings and salutations.

Unfazed, Dean leans over the engine and points at the alternator. “Good luck getting that out,” he observes wryly, tickled that he can suddenly talk cars with Castiel, of all people.

“I think I can manage,” his companion says with no emotion whatsoever in his voice.

Dean leans back again, a little stung, before venturing, “Bobby said you’d found a new calling. I never thought you’d end up being a grease-monkey, Cas.”

Castiel glances up at him and Dean’s heartened to see the merest hint of a smile on his lips. “Engines are… satisfying,” he says, sounding strangely full of awe. “They are complex and yet simple. I understand how they work and it feels good to fix them.”

“I think Bobby feels pretty good that you’re keeping his business going. He says you’ve fixed seven cars this week alone.”

“Eight.”

“He’ll be a millionaire in a month if you keep this up.”

“I like doing this. He can make money. This is a good arrangement.” Castiel straightens, picks up a rag and wipes his fingers with it. He peers across the scrapyard, ignoring Dean completely, before wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of one wrist and turning back to him. “Are you staying?” he asks.

Dean tears his eyes from the smear of grease Castiel just left on his damp forehead and nods. “For a while. We need a break. It’s been non-stop for… well, since forever. Sam and me have never really had a vacation. Figured it was time to laze on a beach in Hawaii and forget about demons and destiny and all that bullshit.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “You’re not in Hawaii now, Dean.”

Dean grunts. “Yeah, I kind of figured that, Captain Obvious. I was speaking, y’know, metaphorically. Anyway, I don’t like flying.” He folds his arms and raises his face to the sun, although the heat isn’t really that pleasant. “Thought it’d be nice to put down roots for a few months. Maybe fix up Bobby’s place, catch some zees, hang out. You know.”

“‘Zees’?” Castiel’s face is open and curious.

Dean grimaces. “Sleep. It’s a way of talking about sleep. You need some language lessons, dude. Stuff like this really shouldn’t be happening now you’re human. You need to fit in.”

Castiel idly wipes at one finger with the rag. “Bobby has taught me a great many swearwords.”

Dean can’t help but chuckle at the thought. “Yeah, I’ll bet he has.”

“I taught him some new ones in return. He can now swear fluently in Enochian, although I had to advise him to stop before he called down Raphael’s wrath.” He leans forward conspiratorially and whispers, “He’s a little touchy about people comparing him to a camel.”

“Right,” Dean says seriously, before a grin steals across his face.

Castiel’s expression softens in return. “I’m pleased to see you,” he says, at last.

Dean pats him on the arm. “Me too, Cas. Me too. How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

“I am now,” Castiel says evasively, bending his head under the hood again.

Dean follows him down. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay,” he offers, feeling uncomfortable.

“Bobby ministered to my needs with care and attention,” Castiel explains calmly, reaching for a wrench. “It wasn’t pleasant, but it’s over. And you had work to do.”

“I’m still sorry.” And he is now. It shouldn’t have been down to Bobby to patch Castiel up after all, and Dean knows it. But he’d been so _tired_ , and Meg had still been out there, and…

“Dean? It’s okay.” Castiel fixes him with his eyes, just like he used to do when all the powers of Heaven lay at his disposal, and all Dean can do in return is nod and accept his forgiveness. There’s an awkward silence which gradually becomes comfortable as Dean watches Castiel unscrew some bolts, preparing to take apart the entire engine. His fingernails are ragged and dirty and his hands are scratched and stained. He’s only been fixing up cars for a week but he’s clearly thrown himself into it whole-heartedly, with the full focus Dean’s come to expect from him by now. He watches as sweat drips from Castiel’s hair onto the fuel pump and abruptly remembers what’s waiting in his bag.

“Here,” he announces after a quick rummage, offering Castiel an ice-cold bottle. It’s accepted with a nod of thanks and they both stand away from the car to drink.

Castiel glances at the contents and shoots Dean an approving look. “Water?”

“Yeah, well. I’m all about the clean-living now, Cas,” Dean shrugs. “No booze for me. About time I started to look after myself.”

“You’re looking to the future. I’m pleased to hear that.”

Dean shakes his head and squints up at the sun. “Hell, yeah,” he sighs. “Feels good to be free.”

Another companionable silence falls until Castiel turns to the engine again and Dean stares at his back, which is shining and running with sweat. He watches a droplet run down the groove of one scar, wondering why he finds it so enticing when he really shouldn’t – no, he _really_ shouldn’t – before he forces himself to think about more practical matters. He clears his throat and asks, “Are you wearing sunblock?”

Castiel darts a puzzled look at him. “What?”

“Sunblock. You’ve been out here for hours. Aren’t you worried about getting burnt?”

Uncertainly, Castiel looks up at the sun. “I’m… not used to taking such precautions.”

“You’re kind of red already. You should put your shirt back on.”

“I left it at the house.” Castiel looks down at the engine before adding, “Do you want to give me a hand here? I’ve nearly finished for today.”

“Sure,” Dean grins, rolling up his sleeves. “Thought you’d never ask, man. Engines and me are like old friends, although I prefer my friends less rusty.”

He starts unscrewing bolts as Castiel does the same a few inches away, their elbows knocking together in the cramped space. The sun beats down on the back of Dean’s neck and the smell of rust and oil mixes peculiarly with the scent of the man standing beside him: sweat and something else, something masculine and raw. It makes Dean’s mouth water a little, which he thinks is weird, but he doesn’t muse on it for too long because he realizes he’s too busy watching the muscles in Castiel’s arms dance under his skin as he struggles to loosen metal that’s been in one position for too many years. One bolt simply refuses to move; Castiel strains and strains but it doesn’t budge an inch. Before Dean even realizes he’s doing it, he’s placed a hand on Castiel’s and is giving him strength, helping him unscrew it, and then his eyes sweep up his companion’s arm to reach his face.

Castiel is looking at him with something like amusement.

“Just thought I’d lend a hand,” Dean says weakly, pulling his fingers away, suddenly flustered and embarrassed without having the faintest clue why. What the hell is wrong with him?

“So I see,” Castiel declares. “I’m only as strong as a human now, so I suppose I should get used to it.”

“That wasn’t what I…”

But then, out of nowhere, warm lips hit his and Dean silences, eyes opening wide in shock, too stunned to kiss back or run away or scream _What the fuck are you doing, you maniac?_ Castiel kisses him forcefully and without the slightest hesitation, apparently confident that he’s not doing anything wrong and with more passion than Dean ever imagined his body could contain. He presses a thigh against his and pins Dean back-first against the car, one hand twisting in Dean’s shirt and the other reaching up to press against his cheek, oblivious to the fact that Dean might not want this. It’s unexpected and intimate, sweet and delicious all at once, but Dean’s so taken aback that he can’t react at all; he just stands there until Castiel pulls his mouth away to smile at him.

“It does feel good to be free, doesn’t it?” Castiel murmurs, his voice little more than a soft growl. He stares right into Dean’s eyes for just long enough to make his knees tremble before turning and walking back up to the house.

Dean watches him go, breathing hard.

And wow, that sun is really, _really_ hot.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Dean spends the rest of the day trying to avoid being anywhere near Castiel. He can’t quite believe what happened. He’s freaking out so much he’s sure that Sam and Bobby can see it written all over his face, but they don’t treat him any differently as they all eat lunch and drive into town for some groceries. The fact the world is going on as though nothing’s changed should be comforting, but all it does is freak Dean out even more. He feels like everybody should be screaming and pointing fingers at him.

Castiel, perhaps wisely, disappears. Bobby mumbles something about how he’s gone up to the attic to sort through some musty manuscripts. Dean doesn’t care – he’s just pleased he doesn’t have to see him. He’s confused enough as it is.

He thinks really hard. Harder than he’s thought in a while, actually. Castiel is his friend – hell, he’s pretty much become part of the family over the last couple of years, although why anybody would want to be part of the Winchester clan is a mystery to Dean considering how _that_ usually ends up. But Castiel is a part of their lives and Dean enjoys spending time with him, a feeling he’d assumed was friendship. He’s about as familiar with _friendship_ as he is with _relationships,_ though, not having much experience of either, and the fact that his dealings with Castiel might have slipped from one to the other is baffling to him.

But he does like him. He likes him a lot. The more Dean thinks about it, the more he realizes that he doesn’t like Castiel the way he liked Ellen or Ash or any of his other friends (and it depresses him how many of them are dead; even with the Apocalypse averted and humanity saved and the birds singing in the sunshine, Dean can’t stop thinking about that). With Castiel, it’s not just about his personality. There’s no real laughter or joking or hijinks or drunken pranks – Castiel isn’t like that. Castiel’s solid, dependable, strong. He’s faithful in more ways than one. He’s got Dean’s back and Dean tries to have his in return. Castiel is a force of some kind; occasionally one to be reckoned with and sometimes one that falters. Even now that he’s human, wings torn from his back and tossed down to live on Earth with the rest of its mortal creatures, he’s still something special.

As the day wears on and he can still taste him on his lips, Dean finally starts to comprehend just how special.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He goes with his gut. That’s the Dean Winchester way, and his gut tells him that if he’s having trouble sleeping tonight, chances are Castiel is too. He creeps downstairs, shooting a glance at a snoring Bobby on his bed in the den, before padding into the kitchen and picking up a dishcloth. He folds it in half, fills it with ice cubes from the freezer and folds it again, keeping them trapped inside. Then he opens the cellar door and walks down the stairs, not at all surprised to see the light in the panic room is on.

“You awake, Cas?” Dean calls, pleased to hear his voice sounds steady.

There’s the sound of a body shifting on the bed through the doorway. “Yes,” comes the decidedly grumpy reply. Dean flinches a little at the annoyance in his friend’s voice before stepping into the panic room, his nose greeted with its usual aroma of rust and dry earth. It’s cool in here, if a little uncomfortable, but there were only so many rooms in the house and Castiel had apparently claimed this one for his own as soon as he’d been well enough to make it downstairs.

“What do you want?” He’s sitting upright on the flimsy bed, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a frown.

Dean takes one look at the color of his neck and shoulders and whistles. “Whoa. Looks like I had the right idea.” He holds up the ice and Castiel’s eyes follow the movement, narrowing slightly in puzzlement. “Ice,” Dean adds quickly, tossing the bundle over to him.

Castiel catches it in a hand that is stained dark with grease and rust; Dean’s worked on enough engines in his life to know that dirt like that doesn’t come off easy, even after a lot of scrubbing. “I should have thought of this,” Castiel mutters, staring down at the bag for a few moments before holding it up to his neck. He hisses in a breath as the cold fabric meets his burnt skin and peers across at Dean. “Why are you still up?”

“You kissed me,” Dean snaps, unable to hold it in any longer.

Castiel doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

“Why the hell would you go and do something like that?”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

Dean pauses, thrown by the response. Castiel’s expression slowly moves from annoyance to mirth and he smiles a little.

“I’m glad this amuses you,” Dean huffs, putting his hands on his hips.

Castiel’s smile widens and he looks down. “It just seemed like a good idea at the time. If I embarrassed you, you have my apologies.”

“You didn’t embarrass me, Cas.” Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “You just threw me, is all. I had no idea you felt that way. I didn’t know you were–” He goes to say ‘gay’, realizes how bizarre that sounds and simply lets his voice trail off.

Castiel doesn’t respond. He moves the ice from one side of his neck to the other and his face twitches in pain. Dean studies him for a few moments before saying softly, “Guess that hurts, huh?”

“It’s stupid,” Castiel replies, irritated. “I had no idea a few hours in the sun could hurt so much. This body is pathetic.”

“Doesn’t look so bad to me,” Dean says without thinking, before biting his lip. Had that sounded flirty? He doesn’t want to sound flirty.

Castiel grimaces. “I have to spend the rest of my measly life in this shell and I can’t even go outside without burning it. It makes me feel useless.”

“Dude, _sunblock._ And stop being so melodramatic.”

Castiel shoots him a glance that is one hundred per cent pure hatred. Despite himself, Dean laughs at it before sitting down on the bed beside him. “Give me the ice.”

“Why?” Castiel asks, suspicion dripping from his voice.

“Because I can freeze the parts you can’t reach, Confucius. Let me help.”

Still radiating belligerence, Castiel hands him the bundle of ice. Dean motions for him to turn his back and he does so stiffly, moving so one of his knees is up on the mattress and the other leg dangles to the floor. Up close, the red scars trailing down his back are ugly and raw – the skin is completely healed, but it’s still so new it looks paper-thin and soft. Dean hesitates before placing the ice on the back of Castiel’s neck, not sure if he should touch the scars or not. They must be extra sore surrounded by all this sunburn. Castiel’s back is like a furnace, one long scarlet burn from shoulder to waist.

“You really are fragile, aren’t you? You need to start carrying a parasol,” Dean quips.

“I don’t appreciate being mocked,” Castiel tells him bluntly. He really does sound fed up.

“I thought you’d be used to it by now,” Dean replies, unrepentant. He slowly draws the dripping cloth down Castiel’s spine and is rewarded with a soft groan and a shudder. “That feel good?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, but he lowers his head. Completely unexpectedly, Dean finds himself staring at the wet curls at the base of his hairline, so dark against the red skin of his neck; he’s seized with a sudden urge to stroke his fingers through them and has to fight it off. Taking a deep breath, he tears his eyes away and moves the ice down to Castiel’s waist.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for months,” says Castiel, out of nowhere.

Dean’s hands stop moving.

“I don’t know if it was because I’ve spent so long among the company of humans or… something else. But I wanted to know you. I never thought I could, but now that I’m mortal...” He stops, raising his head, not looking round. “All I could think was, ‘life’s too short.’ I had to try.”

Dean stares at a small droplet of water as it runs down Castiel’s back. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He thinks for a few moments, feeling his heart beating way too fast in his chest, then opens the dishcloth and takes out a square of ice, placing it flat on the skin before him, making the flesh goosebump and twitch. He pushes it over Castiel’s back: gently, slowly, tracing cool paths through the flaming surface. Castiel’s head lowers again and Dean just can’t help it; his lifts his frozen fingers until they trail through his hair and come away wet and warm.

Castiel shivers. It seems completely involuntary and the movement makes Dean catch his breath in pleasure. The ice cube has almost melted away, so Dean picks out another and runs it across burning shoulders and down Castiel’s arms, stopping at his wrists. By the time he’s done that, the ice has gone and so he finds another, then another, painting his partner’s back with coldness; running blocks of ice down his spine and over the lines of muscle and bone.

Castiel doesn’t speak but his breathing speeds up and his hands clench by his sides. Dean, meanwhile, is feeling breathless himself, but it’s nothing to do with the cold. He feels so turned-on he’s almost giddy with it. It strikes him that Castiel is trusting him to do this, to look after him, and the knowledge almost brings a lump to his throat.

There’s one ice cube left. He takes it and stares at the canvas before him, wondering where to use it before realizing that he’s been avoiding the scars. He’d assumed Castiel wouldn’t want him to touch them; that they’d be painful or sensitive or simply a reminder of what he’d lost. But now Dean is seized by a sudden bravado and he places the ice at the top of the left one and slides it delicately down the gash.

Castiel’s entire body tenses. His head snaps up and he makes a tiny whimper that Dean can’t interpret, but it sounds as though it could just as easily be pain or pleasure. He almost lifts his hand and removes the ice cube but, when nothing else happens, he simply switches it to the other scar instead. Castiel’s shoulders start to shake but, again, he says nothing. Emboldened, Dean presses the ice down a little harder.

“ _Ah..._ ” Castiel gasps, a hand coming round behind him to grip Dean’s knee.

Pleased, Dean smiles a little and leans forward. He blows on the trail left by the water and Castiel’s head drops down again. Fingers dig hard into his knee and suddenly Dean knows, he _knows_ , that he wants Castiel as much as Castiel apparently wants him. He loves feeling so close to him, adores touching him, can’t believe how the small, quick gasps coming from that mouth are affecting him. Without thinking he kisses the nearest scar, moving his lips down the line as he moves the ice down the one beside it, the movements parallel and in perfect sync. He hates that the scars are there because he knows that they’re a physical, painful symbol that Castiel was punished – they represent some kind of castration, a binding that Dean can’t even begin to understand. But Castiel doesn’t move away and his breathing gets even faster, so Dean assumes he’s enjoying this. And then the ice is gone, melted away by the heat, and before he knows it Dean’s pushing Castiel’s head round so he can kiss him and share the icewater on his tongue.

It’s the first time he’s ever kissed a guy in his life, but as Castiel twists to face him it doesn’t even occur to him that it’s strange to feel stubble tickle his chin; he runs his hands up Castiel’s naked chest and doesn’t miss breasts or soft skin. This feels perfectly natural because that’s just him and Cas. Natural. They work together. They always have, but it just took him a while to see it. He places a hand on his partner’s neck and pulls him even closer, making Castiel hiss in pain as he brushes his sunburn, but the sensation doesn’t bother him enough to make him jerk away. Instead Castiel slides his tongue deep into Dean’s mouth, almost deeper than Dean can deal with because it’s so _intimate_. He moans and Castiel’s eyes flicker before they close. Dean closes his, too, and they kiss so hard and furious it’s blatantly an attempt to make up for lost time.

Then Castiel’s hands sweep up beneath Dean’s shirt, pulling it open and easing it off his shoulders, and an instant later Dean jerks in shock as something wet and cold glides down his sternum. Castiel’s eyes flash with something almost wicked and Dean is surprised to see an ice cube in his hand; he’d obviously missed it. He opens his mouth to say something witty and pun-worthy about being _hot stuff_ and needing to _cool off_ but loses all capacity to speak when ice circles his left nipple. It’s almost unbearable and yet scintillating in a way Dean can’t quite get his brain to register, and he twitches helplessly as the ice moves swiftly onto his right side. A hot tongue follows, swiping delicately against his cold, erect nipples. The sensation sends a shiver deep into Dean’s bones; he feels it in his _spine_ as Castiel’s tongue loops around his flesh playfully, and when the ice cube is small enough it vanishes into his mouth and becomes a part of the heat and wetness within. Dean watches in amazement as Castiel balances ice on his tongue and licks him for an amazing, toe-curling length of time with a chill that makes him moan like a wounded animal.

A hand falls on his crotch and Dean snaps out of it. “There’s no room on the bed,” Castiel murmurs before licking him from the edge of his jaw and all the way around to his mouth, trailing cool fire despite the fact the ice has finally melted. Then he leans back and indicates for Dean to move, so he rises shakily to his feet and realizes that he needs to unbutton his jeans pretty damn quickly before they start cutting off his bloodflow. He removes them as Castiel pulls the flimsy mattress from the cot and drops it on the floor. The fact that his companion can be so ruthlessly practical at a time like this is strangely reassuring – this is Castiel, after all, and he might not have done this before but he’s still in control.

As if reading his mind, Castiel glances up at him seriously, the _I’m in charge here_ look on his face somewhat ruined by the mop of grown-out hair falling onto his forehead and the fact that his nose is starting to peel. Dean quirks a grin at him in return, taking a moment to yank off his socks, straightening up in just his underwear. Castiel’s eyes dance over his body – his face is expressionless, and Dean can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking – and then he slides off his sweatpants, stepping out of them and throwing them across the room. The abrupt and total _nakedness_ of him makes Dean swallow hard.

“Wow,” he says, a little boggled at the sight. “Of all the people I ever thought I’d see in their birthday suits, I can definitely say you weren’t one of them.”

“Birthday suit?” Castiel asks, frowning. He looks weird like that, ‘I was once an angel and I suck at colloquialisms’ written all over his face while his cock stands free and easy between his legs, and the paradox makes Dean chuckle. He steps forward and pulls him into a kiss, tracing lines down his cheek with one hand while the other slides down the fevered skin of his back to rest on his ass. He shoves a little, trying to get him to fall down onto the mattress, but Castiel resists.

“Playing hard to get?” Dean whispers, breaking off the kiss.

“I want to be on top,” Castiel tells him almost haughtily.

Dean snorts. “You’re worried about who’s in control at a time like this? We can take turns, dude. Relax.”

Two hands sit on Dean’s shoulders and push him onto his knees. Surprised, Dean lets him. “This isn’t about control,” Castiel grunts. “I have sunburn. I’m not lying on my back.”

Dean has to admit that that’s a very good point. “Right,” he muses. “I forgot.” And to show he’s sorry for the oversight, he licks a stripe down Castiel’s tummy, curls his tongue through damp pubic hair and smoothes his lips along the hard line of his cock, pausing to nip carefully at the tip and wondering the whole time at how amazing all of this feels. Clearly Castiel is just as amazed; grease-stained hands slide into Dean’s hair and squeeze fistfuls of it tightly as he throws his head back, thrusting forwards a little, dick way too hard for this early on in the game and showing his inexperience because of it. Dean doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a damn about anything as he sucks Castiel into his mouth with relish, teasing his balls with his fingers as he swallows and suckles.

Castiel comes so quickly it surprises them both, quietly and forcefully with a series of jerks that almost knock Dean back onto his heels. The hands in his hair twitch and tug until Dean gasps, but Castiel is oblivious as he pulls out of Dean’s mouth and drops a hand to grasp at himself, working his cock to ease the last few drops out of it. Dean wipes his mouth and leans back, giving Castiel a chance to recover, salty bitterness on his tongue. He looks up at his companion and drinks in the sight of him standing there panting, one hand now on Dean’s shoulder to steady himself, eyes closed and chest heaving. He looks glorious. Dean stares at him for a long time, right up until Castiel finally opens his eyes and stares back.

“Betcha don’t hate this body now, huh?” Dean asks smugly.

Castiel licks his lips and pushes sweaty hair off his forehead. “I may have been a little hasty with my judgment,” he declares, a little breathless.

Dean stands up and takes Castiel’s hand, examining the rust and dirt soaked into his skin. “I know you’re not the way you used to be, Cas, but this is you now,” he says gently, kissing his fingers. “You’re right – we’re frail and we hurt easy, but we can feel pretty fucking fantastic too. Don’t you go forgetting that.”

Castiel smiles, his face more relaxed than Dean can ever remember seeing it. “I like engines,” he says, brushing fingers down Dean’s chest. “I know what makes them tick. I think these bodies are another kind of engine, and I’ve just figured out what makes them tick, too.”

“Yeah, well, you _can_ have a lot of fun under the hood,” Dean observes with a raised eyebrow.

“I believe you,” Castiel returns, staring into his eyes in that way-too-intense way of his. “I’d like to look under yours now, Dean. Please lie down.”

Dean smiles at the ridiculously serious way he says it, but he does what Castiel tells him to do. And when strong thighs straddle his groin and a hand reaches between their bodies to ease his cock out of his underwear, he can’t help but pull Castiel down for one more kiss because, truth be told, he’s fairly fucking certain he wants to do this for the rest of his God-given life.

 

~ ~ ~


End file.
